


Got a Taste, I'm a Junkie for Life

by orphan_account



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Come Eating, Face-Fucking, Gaby knows everything because she's a literal queen, M/M, Pain Kink, Porn with Feelings, also Napoleon's a size queen, everyone's bisexual because I'm in charge here, it's pretty disgusting honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 21:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16375253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What really happened after Napoleon gave Illya back his father's watch?(It's porn. Porn happened.)





	Got a Taste, I'm a Junkie for Life

“Kill me if necessary, to get that.”

The two men stare at the computer disk sitting on the couch cushion, this little pale blue container than holds a death sentence for one of them. Hard to believe it’s come to this.

Illya feels the familiar weight of his father’s watch on his left wrist – feels whole again for the first time in days. He looks up from the disk to Solo, whose eyes are already on him. His pulse quickens, as it always does when he’s pinned under that gaze, and the statement tumbles out of his mouth before he’s really thought it through:

“We should burn it.”

The words hang in the air, an admission far heavier than it sounds. This is Illya admitting that he will not fulfil his mission, not if it means killing Solo, and that’s no small thing. He sees the gun in the American’s hand, hidden slightly behind his thigh but not quite enough. He’s aware of just how easily Solo could kill him right now – Illya’s just said, essentially, that he won’t fight. It would be so easy for the man to kill him, to complete his own mission and go home a hero.

The thing is, Illya wouldn’t even resent him for it. He can’t – he loves this man. Has loved him since he dived into the harbour of the Vinciguerra factory and pulled his nearly-dead body out of the water. Probably since before then, even; Illya’s never been good at understanding what the things he feels mean, or even _what_ he feels. It serves him well in the job, because he can file certain feelings away or dismiss them altogether, which is exactly what he’d tried to do with Solo.

It hadn’t worked – at all. The man kept doing things to endear himself to Illya, kept being too suave to ignore, too damn _mouth-watering_ for his own good. Not only had Illya failed to dismiss his feelings for the American, he’d failed to file them away at all. Instead, every conversation with the man had left his heart racing, and he’d made stupid decision after stupid decision just to keep him alive. Granted, he’d done the same for Gaby, though perhaps more overtly – not for any sexist reason, purely for the fact that Napoleon is over six feet tall and is a hugely muscular man who has trained for years to be beaten up and thrown around, whereas Gaby can’t be more than five-foot-seven and is what most fashion designers would classify as ‘petite.’ It was always a no-brainer to focus on Gaby.

Well…not _always_.

Napoleon goes to speak and his voice catches in his throat – Illya tunes back in to the present, back into his own racing pulse and sweaty palms. He’s a little pacified by the soft smile on Solo’s face, but not entirely. He’s seen what the man can do with a smile on his face.

The American clears his throat.

“I agree. We should burn it.”

Illya’s fingers go numb for a moment, his relief is that intense. He catches Napoleon’s eye, and the American smiles at him. It’s tentative, until Illya tries one of his own – little more than a twitch of the lip – and then it widens into the full-blown Napoleon Smile™ that Illya’s come to know and love.

_Hm. An interesting turn of phrase._

Illya wants to let out the breath he’s been holding, but that would give away his turmoil. Instead he nods, a quick jerk of his head that he barely feels in control of. Everything feels alien, suddenly, because he’s not just been shot at, he’s not even been laughed at. Solo is just looking at him, contemplative. Illya frowns a little, because he’s not sure what else to do. He’s about to turn back to the drinks he’s just poured when Napoleon speaks again.

“I always thought I worked better alone.”

His tone is nonchalant, his expression neutral, but Illya stills. He waits for him to continue.

“Usually, I do.” Napoleon turns back to his case and starts packing again. Illya notices him put his gun back in its holster. “But I gotta admit, Peril, having you around has been…nice.”

He keeps packing, attempting to keep up his calm demeanour, but Illya can see that all he’s really doing is shuffling his already neatly folded clothes around in the suitcase. It’s interesting to see the American uncomfortable, and Illya decides to bask in it for a little while.

“Be careful, Cowboy. Starting to sound like you admit you have feelings.”

Napoleon stops his shuffling and leans on his case, turning his head back to the Russian. Illya subconsciously pulls his shoulders back, straightening himself up under the scrutiny, and is suddenly aware that he’s sweating a little; his turtleneck sticks to his back the tiniest bit and it’s damp under the arms. It’s not just because of the jacket he’s still wearing, he’s knows that, though he wishes he could take it off.

Napoleon pulls his eyes away from his partner and drops his head between his shoulders. Illya can see his back rise as he pulls in a deep breath.

“I do.”

He says it to his suitcase, but Illya hears him perfectly.

“For you,” Napoleon clarifies; the words come out with a heavy sigh, sounding almost like a whisper. He straightens up and turns to Illya again, his face set once more in a forcibly nonchalant expression. It’s a testament to how well Illya knows the man that he notices the ever-so-slight furrow in his brow, the little quirk of his mouth, and recognises how they betray his otherwise serene manner. That’s interesting.

“Don’t joke,” Illya grumbles, grabbing the bottle of whiskey off the table to add more to his own glass. He hears Napoleon shuffle uncomfortably behind him.

“I’m not.”

Illya sighs and plonks the bottle back down, resisting the urge to down the glass he’s just poured. “You joke about everything, American.”

“I’m _not_ joking,” Napoleon insists, sounding exasperated now. “I dove into the ice-cold water of an enemy’s factory harbour to stop you from drowning. I stopped in the middle of _active, hostile_ gunfire to take your watch back from a man with a very large gun in his hands, Illya.”

The American doesn’t often use his first name. It’s nice.

“If that doesn’t tell you _very clearly_ that I have feelings for you, then…well, you’re an idiot.”

Illya scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’ve made that clear. Many times.”

“That you’re an idiot? Or that I have feelings for you?” Napoleon asks, a coy smile fighting to break through his indifferent expression. “Because it should be both.”

He’s still just standing there with his hands in his pockets looking like a shy schoolboy, this little smile lighting up his face, and Illya is so in love. It bowls him over to know that Napoleon might actually feel the same way.

Illya stalks towards him, drinks long forgotten. He admires the way Napoleon’s head has to tilt more and more the closer he gets, the way his smile widens into a full-blown grin when Illya finally stops in front of him. Illya takes a moment to admire the man before him: his chiselled face, the red mark on his forehead that’s sure to blossom into a dark bruise, the brown spot in his otherwise impossibly pale eyes. He smiles at this man who has been steadily ruining his life since they day they met, then tucks a knuckle under his chin and ducks to kiss him.

He hasn’t kissed a man in a long time – hasn’t kissed _anyone_ in a long time, truth be told, and it feels nice. He’d forgotten the feeling of someone else’s breath on his face, the sensation of someone’s body pressed up against his own and _not_ because they’re trying to hurt him. It’s not even a _good_ kiss, really, it’s fevered and messy, a weird clash of teeth and lips with absolutely no tongue involved that still manages to get spit everywhere. They’re both smiling into it, which doesn’t help anything, and eventually Illya pulls away, breathing deeply and resting his forehead against Napoleon’s.

“I thought you were interested in women.” His accent is thick, his words slurring around it, and he’s aware his hands are shaking. The last half-hour has been an emotional whirlwind of fury, fear, and hope, and apparently his body is still catching up.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like men too,” Napoleon responds teasingly. “I thought you were interested in Gaby?”

Illya shrugs, toying with Napoleon’s tie, aiming for nonchalance despite his tell-tale tremor. “I am. I am more interested in you.”

Napoleon feels how Illya’s hands are shaking as they start to undo his shirt buttons. He grabs them in his own and holds them to his chest, trying to quell the frantic energy between them.

“We have time,” he whispers against Illya’s cheek. He feels the man nod and turns his head a little, catching his lips in a chaste kiss. “We have time.”

He hums against Illya’s lips. It’s a novelty, kissing someone taller than himself – he isn’t used to being in this position, to craning his neck to reach the other person’s mouth. Even the men he’s been with are usually shorter, or at least the same height, but Illya is fucking _giant_. His huge hands are fisted tightly in his shirt, so Napoleon wraps his arms around the man’s waist. He’s had Illya’s body pressed up against his in so many different ways since they’d met, but to finally be able to _feel_ him, to trace his hands up under his jacket and catalogue his body is incredible. Illya feels huge under his hands, his waist seeming to go on forever, and the way his back muscles shift and bunch at his touch reminds Napoleon just how large the Russian is.

The funny thing is, though, despite all of this Napoleon doesn’t feel small. Even with his head tilted back and his entire body seemingly engulfed by Illya’s sheer size, he feels ten feet tall knowing that this man – the most confusing, frustrating, endearing man Napoleon has ever met – _this man_ wants this just as much as Napoleon does.

Illya drags his tongue along Napoleon’s lip, pulling him out of his reverie. He relaxes his jaw, sighing a little when Illya works his tongue into his mouth, and it’s surprising how gentle the kiss is. For such a volatile man, a bull in a china shop in so many ways, Illya kisses him like he’s the most fragile thing in the world. His thumb fits itself into the dip in Napoleon’s chin and he moves slowly, the desperate energy from earlier gone, giving way to this relaxed, gentle Illya that Napoleon doesn’t really get to see beyond his interactions with Gaby. He’s often wondered how it would feel to be at the receiving end of those tender gazes the blond casts over her, to be held in those arms trained to kill but used instead to comfort.

Turns out it’s the best thing Napoleon’s ever felt.

Illya’s hands have unclenched from his shirt and gone back to undoing the buttons, feeling steadier against Napoleon’s chest. He untucks the shirt from Napoleon’s trousers, going to pull it open when he realises that his tie is still on. Napoleon grins into the kiss, laughing out loud when Illya breaks away to huff in annoyance. The Russian undoes his tie quickly, a little roughly, and perhaps he thinks that Napoleon is bothered by that when the American sucks in a breath, because he couldn’t be more gentle when he smooths his hands over his shirt collar. Napoleon shakes his head a little, catching Illya’s eye.

“You don’t have to be gentle with me, Peril.”

His voice is so husky it surprises him, and Illya too; the look on the Russian’s face quickly shifts from shock to unbridled desire. He nods. When he undoes the top two buttons on Napoleon’s shirt his fingers are insistent and unrelenting, pressing against his throat then shoving the thing down Napoleon’s shoulders roughly. Napoleon gets a little stuck in it, because he hasn’t unbuttoned the cuffs, and Illya grunts once in warning before he spins Napoleon around, grabs the shirt and tugs hard. Napoleon feels a brief pressure against his wrists, then the buttons tear and he’s free. He’s ready to tell the Russian off, to rekindle their fashion argument from what feels like months ago (it’s a _Pierre Cardin_ shirt, for Christ’s sake), but the man in question spins him back around and pulls him into a kiss that stunts any sense of indignation before it can properly arise.

To have Illya’s hands on his bare skin is something Napoleon had never thought possible. His hands trail over Napoleon’s shoulders, short nails scraping over his chest, and Napoleon’s breath hitches. Illya pulls away, and even though Napoleon’s eyes are closed he can feel his calculating stare. There’s a beat, and another, and then Illya scratches his chest again, harder this time.

A wanton moan fills the room, one that Napoleon would ordinarily be embarrassed to have made, but he’s only human. Illya huffs a laugh and mutters, “Figures,” swirling one fingernail over Napoleon’s exposed flesh.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Napoleon can’t help but blush at the ragged quality of his voice. Illya looks him in the eye, taking in his flushed face, eyes landing on his lips, surely red and swollen by now.

“It means,” the Russian says slowly (Napoleon’s a little gratified by the fact that Illya’s voice is no less gravelly than his own, and his accent is as thick as he’s ever heard), “that I am not surprised you enjoy pain.”

He makes it sounds so dirty. Napoleon’s never been this hard in his life.

“Why else would I be in this job?” He tries to imbue his words with the playfulness for which he’s famous, but Illya’s nail is scraping over the sensitive, ticklish skin of his ribs and it suddenly feels like he’ll never be able to get enough air in his lungs again. Illya is gazing at his body unabashedly, taking in every muscle, every scar, every inch of skin. He nods distractedly.

“Why else, indeed.”

He punctuates his reply by sweeping his hand around Napoleon’s back and _scratching_ from shoulder down to waist, face bright as Napoleon lets out a noise that’s half a hiss, half a sigh. The American shudders at the sensation, at the sharp flashes that emanate from Illya’s nails and spark a thick heat in his stomach. Goosebumps erupt on his scalp and fizzle down his body. Illya smirks, opening is mouth to say something snarky, so Napoleon kisses him again to shut him up.

With the new knowledge (or, more accurately, the _confirmed_ knowledge) that Napoleon is not opposed to pain, Illya allows himself to play a little rougher. He bites his way into Napoleon’s mouth, swallowing every grunt and moan the American emits. The kiss isn’t as messy as before, but it’s harsher somehow, Illya’s tongue insistent in its exploration of Napoleon’s mouth and Napoleon refusing to cede control to the bigger man. The sounds they’re making _filthy_ , an absolute mess of slurping and wet smacks, and this is what Illya has always loved about kissing men. With women, he feels a need to be chivalrous and gentle, attentive to their comfort – even if they _do_ want to get rough, Illya tends to leave it to the woman to dictate just how much they want to take. With men, though, Illya feels no such need. He can take what he wants, can leave it up to them to tell him if it’s too much, though he has a feeling Napoleon will take anything Illya gives him and beg for more.

As if to prove that fact, Napoleon pulls away for a second only to surge up again and attack Illya’s neck. His mouth is wet with shared spit and it’s this weird combination of sharp teeth and slick lips that shouldn’t feel good, but it makes Illya _ache_. He feels sick with want and his stomach roils with every nip Napoleon lays on his neck, his body boiling up under the woollen turtleneck he’s _still_ wearing.

“Why the hell is this still on?” Napoleon grumbles as he shucks Illya’s jacket off his shoulders, leaving the man to pull his arms out and moving to untuck the turtleneck from his trousers. Watching Illya pull off his sweater is like seeing the drape fall from a work of art: Napoleon stares helplessly as inch after inch of pale, toned torso is revealed to him. Illya throws the garment behind him when he finally wrestles his way out of it, and Napoleon can see how his chest heaves, how his stomach rises and falls. He knows his mouth is hanging open but he can’t seem to close it, even when he feels saliva start to tickle over his lower lip. He traces his eyes over every inch of the Russian’s skin, cataloguing every scar and scrape, every dip and curve of muscle. There’s no part of Illya’s body that Napoleon doesn’t want to touch, to trace with his tongue, but he settles now for returning to his previous onslaught of Illya’s neck. He takes his time, having so much more real estate to play with, scraping his teeth over the Russian’s Adam’s apple and biting hard over his pulse. The moan that comes from Illya is this cracked, broken sound that has Napoleon reaching down and gripping the man’s crotch before he can even think to ask for permission.

He pulls away from Illya’s neck, staring at his flushed face for a second, before squeezing again, testing. Illya’s head drops back.

“That’s just unfair.”

Napoleon shouldn’t be surprised – the man is a giant, it only makes sense that everything about him is in proportion, but to have the evidence literally in his hand is something else entirely. Sure, he’s thought about Illya’s cock and in his mind it was always huge, but Napoleon’s a size queen at heart – _every_ dick he imagines is huge. To know for a fact that Illya is packing, that Napoleon will have to try _very_ hard to fit it in his mouth…he begins to salivate again. He makes short work of Illya’s trousers, his hand already wrapped around his cock as the man steps out of them and kicks them away. He bites Illya’s chest playfully once more, because he can, then he drops unceremoniously to the ground.

It’s worth the jolt of pain that shoots through his knees to hear the gasp Illya sucks in. Now that he’s down here he pauses for a moment, tilting his head to the side to fully admire Illya’s cock. It’s thick, thicker than he’s ever had before, and so long and pretty. He’s uncircumcised, obviously, and Napoleon pulls the foreskin over the head and back, over and back, toying with it while Illya groans impatiently above him. He grins, knowing he’s being a little shit, and he throws a wink to the man above him before leaning up to flick his tongue around the head. The sarcastic remark on Illya’s tongue dissolves into a filthy moan.

Napoleon hasn’t sucked a dick in a while, possibly hasn’t sucked off anyone this big _ever_ , so it takes him a minute to find a rhythm. When he does, it feels like he might break his jaw with how wide open it is, but the ecstatic sounds coming from above him make a potential trip to the hospital seem entirely worth it. He does his best to look up at Illya, and what he sees is just not acceptable: Illya’s hands are behind his back, his face a mask of restraint. Napoleon recognises what’s wrong immediately, and pulls away.

“You know, Peril, my pretty mouth isn’t just good for smart talking.”

The Russian is barely cognisant – honestly, he’s impressed with the half-moaned, “Oh?” that he manages to produce in response. He should have known that Napoleon’s answer would make his knees weak, just like everything else about the man.

“I’ve been told it’s also very good for fucking.”

It’s so casual yet so _filthy_ and it sums up Napoleon Solo perfectly – the picture of indifference, and yet the dirtiest man alive. Illya groans: a little because of how cringe-worthy that comment was, but mostly because _oh my God, Napoleon Solo just invited him to fuck his mouth_.

Illya responds hesitantly, not wanting to push the American too far: he runs his fingers through his hair, enjoying Napoleon’s responsive purr, and uses a gentle grip to guide the man’s mouth back where it was. Napoleon gazes up at him the whole time his cock is sliding in and out of his mouth with this look of pure lust and something more, and it’s so intense Illya has to look away. He drops his head back and gets his other hand in Napoleon’s hair as well, revelling in the wet, tight heat, the slurping, the constant play of Napoleon’s tongue. Before he really realises what he’s doing he’s fucking Napoleon’s mouth with abandon, chasing the orgasm that’s building alarmingly quickly in his gut, and it isn’t until Napoleon makes this grotesque gagging sound that Illya remembers he might need to breathe.

He releases Napoleon’s head like he’s been burned, apologising half in English and half in Russian, but Napoleon waves him quiet. His eyes are streaming and his face is a little red, but he’s grinning like an idiot, so Illya is momentarily mollified. Napoleon coughs once, then takes a deep breath in through his nose.

Illya’s expecting some sarcastic remark, but Napoleon just dives right back in. He keeps gagging every so often, but the way he conclusively grabs Illya’s hands and resituates them in his hair tells Illya, in no uncertain terms, that he’d better get to work. It doesn’t take them long to get back up to their earlier pace, and this time when Napoleon chokes hard he squeezes Illya’s wrist, keeping it right where it is. Illya gets the idea, thrusting his hips a little more surely, and he’s rewarded with a sinful moan from the American that sends a shudder through him. Illya’s aware that he’s not going to last long at all and he tells Napoleon as much. The man nods as best he can with a cock in his mouth, sending a wink Illya’s way that tells him he’s good where he is.

Illya realises Napoleon wants him to come in his mouth, and it’s an embarrassingly short journey to doing just that. His hands clench hard in the American’s hair, holding him in place while he spills down his throat for what feels like forever. He feels Napoleon gulp and gag around him, and it all adds to the unbelievable sensation. When he finally loosens his grip his forearms ache a little, and he realises with horror just how tightly he must have been pulling Napoleon’s hair. He tries to soothe the pain by running a hand through the man’s hair gently, which Napoleon leans into happily, but of course he knows what Illya’s thinking. He always knows.

“Don’t be sorry.”

His speech is a little more slurred than usual, because he’s stretching and flexing his jaw. Illya’s distracted from the fact by the sight him – it’s _disgusting_ how good he looks with Illya’s come smeared across his mouth and chin, bubbles of saliva trailing down from his lips with the constant movement of his jaw. Illya drags his thumb through it, his spent cock twitching valiantly when Napoleon sucks the thumb into his mouth and moans at the taste. He hauls the American up, taking his weight when his legs give a little. He licks up the mess of Napoleon’s chin and kisses him deeply, smiling when the man moans again. Napoleon pulls away panting, his eyes wide.

“Oh, you’re fucking _filthy_ ,” he breathes, his grin radiant despite his flushed face and still-watering eyes. His fingers play over Illya’s skin, dragging through his chest hair and up his neck to pull him into another biting kiss. Illya undoes his trousers, finally, and he chuckles into Napoleon’s mouth when the man keens at his touch. It isn’t long before Napoleon’s teeth clamp down on Illya’s bottom lip, his hips stuttering into the Russian’s hand as he comes hard. He gets jizz _everywhere_ , all over Illya’s hand and stomach, a little on his own stomach, and he doesn’t waste a second – he kneels right back down and licks the Russian’s skin clean. Illya’s moan sounds a little muffled, and when he looks up he sees that he’s sucking Napoleon’s come off his own hand.

It’s the most delightful thing Napoleon’s ever seen.

Eventually they get around to collapsing on the bed – which has been less than a metre away this whole time – and Napoleon is surprised and thrilled to discover that Illya is a cuddler. He gets pulled into the man’s arms as soon as they lie down, manhandled so his back is pressed to Illya’s chest, and ordinarily he’d contest it because that’s what he and Illya do, but…it feels so nice. They’re both still totally naked, a little sweaty and _very_ sticky, but Napoleon doesn’t care because Illya’s left hand is trailing over his arm, his chest, his stomach, leaving his skin tingling and warm. Napoleon traces the watch on his wrist, fingers playing with the buckle.

“You know,” he goads in a sleepy voice, “you never said thank you.”

Illya laughs, a wonderfully open sound that Napoleon would never have thought he’d hear when they’d first met. It rumbles against the bare skin of his back and _through_ him – that sensation, combined with the wash of Illya’s breath over his neck, is enough to make Napoleon certain that he never wants to leave this man’s arms.

“I believe I have, how you Americans say, let my actions do the talking.” He smiles openly at Napoleon’s laughter, basking in the delightful sound, before taking the man’s hand in his own. He waits until Napoleon stops laughing and looks at him over his shoulder, then says, very seriously, “Thank you.”

It takes Napoleon’s breath away how utterly vulnerable the Russian looks in that moment. He takes in those wide, blue eyes, the rough graze on his cheek, the way his tongue flicks over his bottom lip ( _nervous_ , his brain supplies incredulously, _he’s nervous_ ), and wonders how he could ever have convinced himself that he wasn’t in love with him.

In lieu of answering, Napoleon twists himself in Illya’s arms so they’re facing each other and kisses him gently. This time it’s slow, exploratory – their earlier eagerness has been placated, giving way to something entirely different but no less thrilling. Now it feels like Napoleon has all the time in the world to kiss Illya the way he’s wanted to since they met – the way _Illya_ has wanted, too, and isn’t that such an overwhelming thought – and he plans to enjoy every second of it.

All too soon Illya pulls away, pressing one more quick kiss to Napoleon’s pouting mouth before he reminds him, “Gaby and Waverly will be here soon.”

Napoleon swears under his breath – he’d completely forgotten. They untangle themselves from one another reluctantly, picking through the various clothing items strewn around the room and dressing themselves again. It’s a damn shame to see Illya’s body be swallowed up again by the turtleneck sweater, but Napoleon comforts himself with the knowledge that he’ll be able to unveil that glorious expanse of skin again, hopefully very soon.

Illya is already fully dressed, hat and all, while Napoleon is still fighting with the buttons of his shirt. The Russian smiles, muttering something under his breath that sounds like, “Always needing my help,” and ambles over with Napoleon’s tie in his hand. He pops Napoleon’s collar while the American finishes buttoning himself up, draping the tie around his neck and doing it up with finesse.

“Show-off,” Napoleon whispers, grinning when the Russian quirks an eyebrow at him. The grin turns into a slack-mouthed gasp when Illya pulls the tie tight against his throat. Illya takes note of how glassy the American’s eyes are, how unfocused his gaze has become, and makes a sound low in his throat.

“Figures.”

He loosens the tie again, straightening Napoleon’s collar, and whispers, “We’ll save that for another time,” against his lips before stealing another kiss purely because he can. Napoleon just nods, his breathing ragged, and on a hunch Illya palms his crotch. Unsurprisingly, Napoleon’s hard again. He grins, delighted to see that a truly breathtaking blush has spread across Napoleon’s cheeks. He pulls himself away before he rips all the clothes they’ve just put back on right off again, finally grabbing the drinks he poured what feels like hours ago and passing one to Napoleon. As an afterthought, he wanders back over to the sofa at the foot of Napoleon’s bed and grabs the computer disk.

It’s a testament to how things have changed that Illya didn’t even consider how tense this action might make Napoleon – and that Napoleon never once thought he should be concerned.

They bring their glasses and the whiskey bottle out onto the balcony, Napoleon setting the contents of the disk into an ashtray (and desperately willing his erection away) while Illya digs around in the room’s kitchenette for a box of matches. The film stinks when it burns, an acrid scent that sticks to the backs of their throats, but to see it go up in flames is so satisfying.

“Absolutely hated working with you, Peril.”

“You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy.”

They clink glasses, and Illya only tears his eyes away from the American’s face when Gaby and Waverly wander onto the scene. The lovers lean against the railing, trying desperately not to look like they’ve just had their hands all over each other, and thankfully Waverly doesn’t seem to notice a thing.

Gaby, on the other hand, notices everything – _of_ _course_ she does. While Waverly remarks on their little bonfire, she casts an appraising eye over the two men, gaze lingering on Napoleon’s swollen lips and messy hair, and on the hint of a love bite that’s just visible over the neck of Illya’s sweater. She doesn’t say anything, barely even makes a face, but somehow manages to convey exactly what she’s thinking:

_Finally._

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who’s joining yet another fandom literally years after its peak? This bitch!
> 
> There’s a lot of angst in the in-betweens here. Ordinarily I try to avoid getting too into people’s feelings, but lately I’ve been in my own an awful lot so this is what happened. I also realise there are a lot of shifts between Illya's and Napoleon's points of view, hopefully it isn't too jarring.
> 
> The title is slightly paraphrased from "Hell Yeah" by Rev Theory.
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://hobotang.tumblr.com) if you want to get in touch there.


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